Jane Austen's Pride & Prejudice Sequel Bundle: 3 Reader Favorites

by Linda Berdoll

  “Elizabeth, beautiful Elizabeth, my lover. I need you so.” Gently but clearly clutching her hair, he sought her lips. They kissed deeply, starved for each other’s breath and taste. Tongues mingled, lips suckling lips as they writhed against each other with passion rising. Darcy, always wondrously graceful in his power and strength, rolled and then rose to his knees with Elizabeth secure in his arms and nestled on his lap. Arms wound over his shoulders and hands flattened on his back, Lizzy nuzzled his neck and bestowed tiny bites.

  “Precious love. My Lizzy.” He arched his neck, moaning and hugging her tight. “Remember page five, my heart?”

  She giggled and focused on his expectant face. Playfully they loved, experimenting with the illustrations from the book, but mostly blissfully caught up with the sensations derived so lusciously from each other. Embracing tightly as they merged and moved in perfect unison.

  “Fitzwilliam, my darling husband,” she whispered, glazed eyes locked. “I love you… I live for your love and touch… your eyes on me… your voice… your mouth… your skin…” Each phrase spaced as she kissed and caressed his chest and shoulders. “Your words of devotion… I so adore you!… I want you… so utterly you belong to me… and I to you… my soul.”

  It was powerful; Darcy was amazed at his control and stamina in light of his wife’s wanton need. As expected, he was unable to withstand all three pages, but neither cared. Their release was blinding, leaving them both shaken and blissfully satiated.

  Later they lay entwined, dozing in their happy exhaustion. Lizzy caressed his chest lazily, running the tips of her fingers through his hair, inhaling deeply of his masculine smell. “William?”

  “Yes, beloved?”

  “I am a little afraid of the books.”

  “Afraid? I do not understand.”

  “Do you ever wonder if our lovemaking will always be like this? Will we, perhaps… run out of new experiences or get bored?”

  “No.”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  He was silent for a spell, collecting his thoughts. He understood this was one of those moments where, despite his previous inexperience, his overall maturity and worldliness gave him a certain wisdom she lacked. “Elizabeth, I will eternally love you and desire to make love to you. I know this for certain. Right now the activity is novel and perhaps that lends a dimension to it that will not be there twenty or thirty years from now.

  “Yet by then our love will have grown stronger. We will have had children together, been through hardships, created memories, and built a marriage that is deep. We may not be tearing our clothes in passion or making love three times a day, although maybe we will,” he laughed and kissed her head, “yet when we do love each other it will, I believe, be stronger and more powerful, as can only occur between two souls who have bonded for so many years. This is how it is meant to be. Do you understand?”

  He lightly grasped her chin and turned her face to his, surprised to see tears in her eyes. In alarm he cupped her cheeks and kissed her. “Beloved, please do not fear! I will always desire you, Elizabeth. We can discard the books if you wish.” She halted him with a kiss, long and deep.

  “Why do you put up with me?” she finally said. “I am so silly and you are so wise!”

  “Neither is true, Elizabeth,” he interrupted, “and I put up with you because I could not survive without you.” He kissed her eyes and then her nose before continuing. “Happy anniversary, my precious wife, today and every day for all my life I will love you and thank God He brought you to me. This I can assert with confidence.” He laughed softly as he stroked her hair and playfully nibbled her lips. “I have not tired of riding my horses after all these years, so how could I tire of riding you? You, precious Elizabeth, are profoundly superior.”

  The preparations for the Ball consumed most of Lizzy’s thoughts. As the imminent event drew nearer, Lizzy’s original excitement and blasé attitude was replaced by a fair amount of nervousness. She was apprised of several facts regarding the Masque, which either calmed her or escalated her anxiety. Firstly, the annual Cole Twelfth Night Masquerade Ball was a Derbyshire extravaganza dating back more than fifty years and was the premier social affair.

  The fact that the surpassingly eligible bachelor, the prime bull as he put it, Mr. Darcy of Pemberley, had only deigned to attend four times since his coming of age was a minor scandal, viewed by some as a hideous breach of propriety. This philosophy signified the momentous weight ascribed to this singular celebration and Lizzy’s opportunity to make a positive impression as Mrs. Fitzwilliam Darcy, Mistress of Pemberley. It was in no way vanity for her to rightfully surmise that all eyes would be on her for a variety of reasons.

  Knowing this, Lizzy was uncertain whether she was happy or dismayed to discover that, although a “Masque,” few masks were worn. The tradition of actually attempting to disguise oneself in the relatively insular community of Derbyshire had long ago been deemed ludicrous. Therefore, the style had faded only to be affected by the more frivolous—usually single—attendees who sought an air of mystery.

  Darcy had flatly refused even to consider wearing a mask, ever. Lizzy had initially been relieved, since the idea held no appeal to her either, yet as the import of the Ball registered fully upon her consciousness, the comfort of hiding behind a mask did seem providential!

  Then there was the gown itself. Lizzy trusted the genius of Madame du Loire and, having beheld her gown, she could abstractly proclaim it a masterpiece. Yet therein lay her disquiet. Lizzy had never in her life entertained the notion of donning such a fabulous garment. It was so far removed from her character to cover herself with yards upon yards of finery. She recognized that if ever there was a night she needed to be comfortable with who she was, it was this night. How could she possibly be “Lizzy” dressed like this? Of course, she was no longer just “Lizzy”—she was Mrs. Darcy, and desired to present herself as such to please her husband and impress the denizens of Derbyshire. Oh, the dilemma! It gave her a headache.

  Lastly, Mr. Vernor had informed Darcy that Sir Cole had agreed to sanction the waltz for two dances this year. The scandalous Viennese dance had gained reserved favor last year when the Prince Regent had introduced it at a royal affair in the palace. The older members of society had suffered a collective case of apoplexy, but the younger elite had secretly applauded the Prince’s action. Outwardly they nodded sagacious agreement with their elders, yet the dance persisted in popping up throughout the cotillions and balls of the ton. Lizzy had frankly been shocked speechless to learn that her shy, priggish, and rigid husband had learned the dance years ago when touring Austria and practiced further two years ago while in Paris. Lizzy was ragingly jealous to imagine him dancing so intimately with another woman.

  This intelligence had been disclosed to her four days after Christmas. They had all returned from one of their excursions into Lambton where, while the men dallied at the pub, Mr. Vernor had enlightened Darcy about the waltz. Resting in their sitting room for the afternoon, Darcy disclosed this information to Lizzy along with his experience in dancing the waltz and his great willingness to teach her if she wished it. Lizzy was dumbstruck, primarily at the idea of her husband knowing the notorious dance, but also at the concept of performing it herself. Darcy, she could easily tell, was quite enamored by the vision.

  He gazed at her expectantly until finally she stammered, “You dance the waltz! But… you do not like to dance… any dance! How did you learn…” She blushed profusely. “With whom did you… I have heard it is so, so… intimate!” She was inexplicably furious and leapt from her chair with the probable intent of storming from the room, but Darcy grabbed her arm.

  “Elizabeth, stop. You are being silly,” he began, but her angry face halted his words and he released her arm. With a final glare she did storm out of the room and into her dressing room, slamming the door with astonishing vigor. Darcy stood in the middle of the room in a welter of emotion. Anger, dismay, amusement, and bewilderment warred
internally. With stunning clarity, he realized they had just had their first married fight and he was absolutely at a loss as to what to do. Well, a letter is out of the question, he thought with irony as he fell into his chair.

  If Darcy boasted one character trait above all others, it would be his ability to succinctly and reliably rationalize. The problem was that he did not always possess all the necessary evidence to form a perfect conclusion, ergo the disastrous first proposal to Miss Elizabeth Bennet. Mrs. Darcy was another matter. Darcy would never be so presumptuous as to assert that he wholly understood his complex, adorable wife, but in their time together he had amply gleaned the nuances of her thinking, character, and actions.

  Most importantly, he loved her ardently and refused to allow her to feel any pain, if it was within his power to relieve. Therefore, he shoved his emotions aside, another trait he possessed, and allotted himself the time necessary to ponder all that had happened, what she had said and not said, and what he knew of her until he reached a conclusion. After a prayer and a deep cleansing breath, he approached her door.

  He heard a faintly muffled sound from within that he thought might be crying, piercing his heart. He knocked softly. “Elizabeth?” No answer. “Elizabeth my love, we must talk. May I come in, please?” It was some time before he heard a muted yes.

  She stood leaning against the wall by the small window, arms crossed. Her face was averted but he instantly knew, based on his intimacy with her body, that she had been crying but was also still angry. He longed to hold her with a palpable ache but he paused just inside the door.

  “Elizabeth, I beg your forgiveness on several counts. First, I have been horribly insensitive to your feelings lately regarding the Ball and what I now begin to comprehend might be anxiety on your part. I am unbelievably obtuse at times, and I believe this is one of those times. I take the society and denizens of Derbyshire for granted. It has forever been a part of my life and I am remiss, outrageously so, for not remembering that you are acquainted with few of our neighbors.

  “In addition, I am so much in awe of your ability to converse and socialize with strangers that it frankly never occurred to me that you may be nervous. Perhaps you are not and I am, again, leaping to a false conclusion. I can only surmise your nervousness, based on the few subtle signs I have noted—as you have chosen, if I may risk incurring further wrath, not to share your feelings with me.” He noted that she jerked slightly at his last statement and almost turned toward him.

  He hesitated momentarily to collect his thoughts. “As for the waltz, I must tell you that I am offended and hurt that you would infer, knowing me as well as you should, that my learning the waltz in any way means that I have been intimate with another woman.”

  She hung her head and her shoulders shook, making it nigh on impossible for him not to move to her. “Oddly, at the same time, your jealousy and possessiveness is charming and gratifying to my ego. I suppose the logical denouement is that we humans, even those who love each other as profoundly as we do, still need reassurance and reiteration.”

  He took a few steps closer to her before continuing. “Both times I danced the waltz, it was painful to me and I was under great duress. I can bore you with the details later if you wish. Any proficiency I claim is due to Georgiana.” Lizzy was so startled by this that she spun around, her mouth agape.

  “Georgiana!” she blurted, her tear streaked face so precious to him.

  He smiled and stepped close enough to wipe the tears away with one finger. “When Bingley told her I had danced it in Paris, with the intent of embarrassing me—which he succeeded in doing—Georgiana would not let it rest. You know how weak I am when it comes to granting the wishes of those I love, so I capitulated and taught her.” He shrugged. “It is not unusual, actually. Who else do you think teaches her to dance?”

  He stroked her cheek as he cocked his head and knitted his brow. “By the way, you have obviously deduced that I do not like to dance. This is not true. I abhor balls with all the protocol and vapid conversation that attend them, and I detest being on display. However, I enjoy dancing and have been told I am accomplished. One could even say I am light of foot!” he chuckled. “I have simply never been properly partnered, except for one time during which I behaved idiotically.”

  Lizzy was crying again and fell into his arms, burying her face into his chest. “William, I am a fool! Please forgive…” He checked her apology with a deep kiss, and she responded fervently with a rapid transposition of her despair and anger to passion. Darcy swept her into his arms and swiftly carried her to their bed. He held her tightly, locked to her mouth as he gently sat on the bed with her in his embrace.

  He pulled back mere inches and met her eyes. “Elizabeth, my love, there is no other but you, never has been, and never will be.” His voice was low and husky as he stroked her face, tenderly kissing her eyes and nose and every other feature. His fingers moved to the clasps on her gown, beginning the familiar process of undressing each other, a process they had discovered early on to be tremendously stimulating.

  At last they were naked, crazily aroused yet peacefully content enough in their love simply to enjoy the sensation of touching each other. They knelt in the middle of the enormous bed, face to face, the unencumbered access to their bodies allowing for languid exploration. There was not an inch of Darcy’s sumptuous six-foot-three-inch physique that Lizzy did not adore.

  His many scars were the evidence of a rugged youth and badge of a virile adulthood. A light dusting of freckles across the fair skin of his shoulders created a pattern she enjoyed tracing with her fingertips. The downy hair on his chest, the strong pulse in the hollow of his throat, every muscle defined and firm, and his hands… Oh, how she loved his hands! Not only how they felt on her body and the passion his skillful fingers could incite in her, but the very look of them: strong with calluses on the palms, yet soft with long, refined fingers. Then there was his face with piercing blue eyes, lush lips, strong jaw, cleft chin, and noble English nose all combined masterfully. She touched all of him, arousing him with her devotion.

  Darcy equally worshipped his wife. Elizabeth was so alive and vibrant and spirited that he frequently found himself freshly amazed at how petite she was. Her bones were so delicate he wondered she did not break in their wild passion, her body svelte yet firmly muscled, skin velvety smooth and flawless, and breasts that perfectly fit his large hands. He towered over her and around her, but rather than prompting a sense of dominance, his potent manliness activated a profound need to protect and satisfy her.

  He loved the small mole located precisely where her right buttock swelled from her back, her narrow waist, the dimple at the base of her spine, her pink nipples, her fragility, the thin wrists that he could encircle with his thumb and index finger, her dainty ears, and her face. He could and often did become enraptured by her face. Elizabeth was beautiful by any standard, but what captivated Darcy was the vital force and character that shone on her countenance and primarily in her fine eyes.

  He kissed her and she responded with fervor, as they held and touched and squeezed and teased. He trailed his mouth along her jaw to her ear, whispering, “Best beloved, do you remember the first time we touched?”

  She hesitated for only a second. “When you assisted me into the carriage at Netherfield. I remember, yes.”

  “We have not spoken of that event. What, if anything, did you feel?” He nuzzled her neck, planting feather kisses while his fingers lightly traced up her backbone.

  “Initially I was merely surprised that you would extend the courtesy as I thought you disliked me. A bit angry, too, with what I perceived as presumptuousness. The way you looked at me though… it disturbed me. I could not decipher your expression, but I was captured by something in your eyes and the warmth of your hand.”

  He was studying her eyes, smiling softly as they relived an odd yet now happy memory. “I felt a jolt rush to my heart and my hand tingled all the way home. I did not understand it and was
troubled. I still am not sure what happened. I know I did not care for you then, and I do not believe it was a sexual response. Perhaps it was like a signal, if I had been listening, that there was more between us than I imagined. It affected me and I relived the moment in my dreams, yet I cannot explain it. I do know one thing; it was the first time I consciously accounted you handsome.” She smiled and ran her fingers through his hair.

  Darcy caressed his thumb over her lips and jaw as he cupped her face. “I did not plan to take your hand. It was impulsive. The instant I touched you, I knew I had acted from a desire to feel you, not out of courtesy. I was stunned by the emotions rushing through me. Prior to that moment, you had intrigued me but only as a challenge to my intellect, an enigma I failed to comprehend. I thought you lovely but no more so than many other women I had seen. At least this was my reasoning.

  “You had already invaded my dreams,” he smiled and blushed mildly, “and I thought of you incessantly. I think I needed to touch you so I could rid myself of this obsession, rationalizing that the dreams were not reality. I was a fool. The instant your skin met mine, I was yours. I knew I loved you. Of course, you know the rest, how great my self-deception and denial.”

  He took her face into his strong hands and drew closer, raptly staring into her eyes. “Elizabeth, I have touched other women’s hands and never, not once, have I felt anything, not a ripple. In addition, I have never dreamt of another. Whatever… sensual… dreams I have had in my life were vague with no discernable partner. You were vivid, much to my shame. I pictured you in stunning detail and that touch, as brief as it was, lived in me and came alive and grew with each dream. I love you, my Lizzy. No one compares to you.”